


Memories

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Het, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:18:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short and bittersweet. Response to a k!meme prompt requesting some Merrill/Pol action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

She could still remember the way he’d sigh against her ears, breath hot and juddered; how his nails would carve half-moon shapes into her lower back. How he’d scrabble against her gauntlets, her tunic, palms clammy, whispering _yes Merrill yes, oh Maker yes;_ then he’d kiss a blazing trail against her neck, tracing her vallaslin with his tongue, and she’d wrap her legs around him, yes, her heels against his thighs, grinding against him, relishing the way his hardness would press insistently back.

When he pounded against her, no longer was he sweet Pol, gentle Pol, but instead need made incarnate: He would split her open, again and again, thrust after dire thrust. He’d moan and he’d curse, and when she squeezed him from within, he’d shudder against her collarbone. Sometimes he’d rock into her so hard she’d yelp. But she didn’t care; she would always beg, beg for _more, more, Pol, give me more, I need more._

And he’d give it to her, by the Dread Wolf he’d give it to her, faster and faster; and they’d curve into each other, sweat coursing, moans intermixed. Then inside her he’d become as rigid as stone and his eyes would screw shut, his jaw would hang slack, and the next moment he’d buck against her, shouting--sometimes her name, sometimes nothing at all—-shoving into her again and again, one last staccato rhythm of release.

Afterward, he’d slip out of her, forehead against her shoulder, chasing his breath; and he’d lay sticky and warm against her thigh.

 _Emma sa’lath,_ he’d whisper, and he’d mean it.

But Firsts were never meant for this: Their responsibility was to the clan and not any one member, no matter how urgently her body responded to his call. He was _elvhen’alas,_ impure, tainted by the city; and she was the First, chosen by the gods.

So when Hawke strode into the camp that day, with the apostate and the pirate and his clear-eyed brother who smelled like cut grass, she set her jaw and followed them to the City of Chains, and she did not look back.


End file.
